


Don't Wait

by FeralCreed



Series: Finding Bucky [1]
Category: Ant-Man (2015), Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Crack, Darcy is a bamf, Depression, Feels, Flashbacks, Fluff, Happy Ending, How Do I Tag This, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Sorry, Medical issues, Multi, Nightmares, PTSD, Slow Burn, Steve just wants to help, aou semi-compliant, bucky has problems, headcanons, i don't really know how to tag this, mcu - Freeform, most of it is pg13, or at least not-sad ending, rape mention, really slow burn, self-harm mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-27 12:06:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 20,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2692361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeralCreed/pseuds/FeralCreed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Thor shows up in Steve Rogers' apartment claiming to be able to help find Bucky, Steve is skeptical but agrees. After learning Bucky's general location from Heimdall, Steve returns to Earth and prepares to leave in search of his best friend. Even though he's determined to find his best friend, Bucky might not be willing to go along with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Named after Joey Graceffa's song (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kcwo_mhyqTw). I own nothing and all rights go to original owners. Unbeta'd. Comments and critiques appreciated!

The doorbell rang early Sunday afternoon. Steve looked up from the papers spread all over his kitchen table, hoping that he wouldn't have to get up to answer the door. But the bell rang again. He sighed and dropped his pencil on the table, leaning back against the chair for a moment before standing up.

 

Steve was tall, but the man at his door was taller.

 

“Steven Rogers,” Thor said, a smile crossing his face. “It is good to see you again. May I come in?”

 

“I... uh... yeah, sure.” Steve stepped to the side, making a little gesture with his free hand to wave Thor into his apartment. With a six-and-a-half-foot-tall Norse god in it, it seemed a little smaller than it had a minute ago. Steve closed the door and followed Thor into the kitchen. “Been a while, huh? You can sit down if you want. How's Jane and her science crew? And Asgard?”

 

Thor took a seat at the kitchen table. “They are well. Jane's research is going even better than she had expected. Asgard is well, too.”

 

“That's good,” Steve said. An awkward silence followed. “You don't seem to be the kind for social calls, and it doesn't seem like anything's wrong. So why are you here?”

 

“If I was intruding I can return at another time,” Thor offered, moving as if to stand up.

 

“No, you're fine. But why are you here, Thor?”

 

“I heard about your friend. And I am sorry, Captain. But I am here to help you.”

 

“Help?” Steve repeated.

 

“I know how it feels when you fight someone you love,” Thor explained, dropping his gaze to his clasped hands. “It is a deeper pain than could come from any wound. In some ways it is a worse pain than losing them.”

 

“You fought your brother while you were in Asgard, didn't you?” Steve asked.

 

“Yes,” Thor confirmed. “It was not a pleasant experience for either of us. But he is safe and alive. And the experience brought you to mind. You also had to fight one you loved, but you were unable to know that he even lived.”

 

“Look, Thor. No offense, but I don't see what you can do about that. Sure, you're a god and all that, but as far as I know you can't change the past. And I don't see what else could help by this point. Bucky won't give himself up and he'll know how to hide himself.” Steve crossed his arms, putting up a barrier to hide behind. It hurt to talk about Bucky. He didn't want to think about everything that had happened. He wanted to remember the smiling, laughing 1940s sergeant. Modern-day Bucky, with his ravaged mind and hatred, was worse than anything Steve had tortured himself with after losing his friend. He wanted to forget it, even though he knew the nightmares wouldn't let him.

 

“There is no way for even my people to change the past,” Thor admitted. “But we can see present, in all nine realms. Our gatewarden, Heimdall, has the power to see whatever is happening to a person. After I had to destroy the Bridge to stop Loki, he was able to see Jane and tell me that she was alive.”

 

Steve looked up sharply. “What do you mean?” he asked.

 

“With your permission, I would ask Heimdall to try to find your friend James Barnes. You would be able to know where he was. After that, I cannot say what will happen, but it is what I can to do help you. Will you come with me?”

 

Steve glanced around at his apartment. He'd just signed the lease agreement. He'd just finished setting up the furniture. He'd just managed to find a job. He'd just made arrangements to start making a life. He'd just been offered a chance to find Bucky. “Let's go,” he agreed. Thor shifted his grip on his hammer but Steve put a hand out. “Outside my apartment, preferably.”

 

A nearby back alley served their purpose well enough. Thor started whirling his hammer in a circle, creating a vortex of power. Steve stood next to him, not bothering to try to hide that he was impressed. Within minutes, they appeared in the multistory royal palace of Asgard.

 

“Are you sure he doesn't mind?” Steve asked for the fifth time s they neared the front gates.

 

“Steven Rogers, I have answered that question each time you asked it. Heimdall was the one to suggest it. I was merely transportation.”

 

“So has he already looked?”

 

“He has not. Permission must be obtained beforehand. It is one of the rules of 'magic', as your people call it.”

 

Together, they went down the Bridge toward the Bifrost. Thor stayed calm but Steve grew even more and more nervous with practically every step. He was going to hear that Bucky was alive. He was going to learn where and go back to Earth - or Midgard, or whatever anyone wanted to call it – and find Bucky. Or he was going to find out that the one person he cared for most was dead and he was going to attack something with all the force in his body and hope he didn't kill someone.

 

Just outside the Bifrost, Thor paused. “Steven Rogers, we have been friends for several years. I tell you with all sincerity that I hope you find the answer you most desire. I hope your friend James Barnes is alive.”

 

Steve stopped and forced himself to take a deep breath. “Thank you, Thor. I guess it was pretty obvious that I was worried, huh?”

 

Thor grinned and clapped his hand against Steve's shoulder. “I have seen calmer men on the eve of battle. Come, the truth awaits.” Dropping his hand, he led the way into the Bifrost. “Heimdall! This is Steven Rogers. He seeks the truth about a friend whom he lost several months ago.”

 

Steve gave an awkward wave with one hand. “Yeah, uh, hi. I'm really not that big of a deal.”

 

Heimdall inclined his head toward both men. “It is a great pleasure to meet you, Steven Rogers. Whom is it that you most desire to find?”

 

“Bucky,” Steve said, his voice choked to nearly a whisper. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I mean, uh, James Barnes. Sergeant James Barnes.” _Shipping out for England first thing tomorrow_ , added the voice in his head.

 

Heimdall turned away from Steve and Thor. The galaxy reflected against his eyes as he searched the realms for any sign. After several long moments, he spoke. “I see him.”

 

Something in Steve's stomach did a double backflip and caused him to make a strangled noise deep down in his throat. Thor stood silently at his side. “Is he safe?” Steve asked, blurting out the words in a desperate rush that he was sure Heimdall didn't understand. His voice both slowed and softened as he asked, “Is he... is he hurt?”

 

Heimdall stared out over the galaxy. Several long seconds passed, each one furnishing Steve with new images of Bucky's broken body in the midst of carnage. “No,” he finally said, his voice and posture completely neutral.

 

All the breath in Steve's body left him in a rush. He quite literally saw stars as he swayed on his feet. Thor looked as if he wanted to pull up a chair for him to sit in but Steve managed to give a smile indicating he was okay.

 

“But he's confused and lost,” Heimdall added gravely.

 

The something in Steve's stomach clenched tightly and tears built in his eyes. His nineteen-forties Bucky had always been so strong and steady and sure of himself. Confused and lost just wasn't him. It couldn't be him. But Steve remembered all too well how he had felt when he'd woken up himself, and he knew that Heimdall was right. Unlike Steve, though, Bucky didn't have anyone.

 

“I'll keep an eye on him,” Heimdall said, turning to face Steve and Thor.

 

“You have been of the greatest help to us both,” Thor said, shaking Heimdall's hand. He glanced toward Steve as if reminding him to say something similar.

 

Steve meant to say “Thank you” but his words came out in a crushed-together jumble of quiet words. He felt like a grenade had exploded in his face. Bucky alive. An incoherent prayer of pure joy and thankfulness almost made him lightheaded. Bucky lost and confused. A cold, dead weight of horror slugged him in the face like a mugger with a cinderblock.

 

“I am glad to have been able to assist you, Steven Rogers,” Heimdall said, graciously overlooking his incoherency. “I hope you find your friend. Thor, will you be returning via the Bifrost or with Mjölnir?”

 

“Can the Bifrost take us?” Thor asked.

 

Heimdall allowed himself a small, prideful smile. “The Bifrost could transport a legion of frost giants if you asked.”

 

Thor laughed and clapped a hand on Heimdall's shoulder. “Then we shall use its power. That is, if you are ready to leave, Steven Rogers?”

 

“I – huh?” Steve stared blankly at Thor for a moment, wondering for a moment what had happened to his apartment. “Oh! Yeah, right, sure. Ready to go. Are you coming back or...?”

 

“Unfortunately my duties forbid a return at present, but I hope to return to Midgard in the near future. Darcy has promised to show me a new form of magic called 'mocha cappuccino'. I bid you a fond farewell. May the fortunes lead you to happiness.”

 

“You too,” Steve said. He and Thor shook hands, and Thor stepped back. Steve's last image of Asgard was of the fading interior of the Bifrost. In just a few minutes, he was back in the alley he and Thor had left him. A feral cat hissed at him, but nobody else seemed to notice his arrival.

 

Steve was busy the rest of the day. He walked down to his landlord's apartment and explained he was going to be out of town for an indefinite amount of time but his payments would continue.

 

“Read the agreement?” demanded the landlord. “Your lease will end in a month.”

 

“Yeah, I know,” Steve said.

 

“Fine. Leave an address to ship your stuff to if you don't come back in time.”

 

“Yes, sir.” Then he called Tony and asked for an update on his motorcycle. Tony had 'borrowed' it to fix something or other that he claimed was wrong. Steve hadn't seen the problem, but Tony had been emphatic that some sort of hardwiring system needed to be changed.

 

“Yeah, sure, I'll have JARVIS order a mindless minion to bring it over,” Stark said absentmindedly. Heavy rock played in the background and Steve was sure he could hear an alarm beeping somewhere. “Ow! Dummy, what did I tell you about not touching the electrical system on this? Anyway, it should be there in an hour. And don't bother telling me the address, I already know it. You have horrible taste in interior decorating. Pepper could really help you out with that.”

 

“Thank you, Stark,” Steve said, trying to be patient.

 

“Yeah, sure. Laters.” Tony yelled something indistinct at Dummy and Steve cut the call.

 

Steve waited for a long time before making the next call. When he finally did, a Russian phrase flowed out of his phone so fast he had no idea what it meant. “Hey, uh, _se hable espa_ _ñ_ _ol?_ ” he asked, smiling in spite of himself.

 

“I speak seven languages but I think you'd be most comfortable with English,” Natasha replied. “What's up, Steve?”

 

“Thor was in my apartment earlier.”

 

“Did he hit his head on the ceiling?”

 

“That's not the point, Natasha. But no. He came to tell me something.”

 

“Hold on a second.” Steve could hear a cracking noise and a scream, followed by frantic shouting in an unidentifiable and alarms. “Okay, keep talking,” Natasha said, sounding slightly breathless.

 

“Is this a bad time?” Steve asked.

 

“No, of course not. I'm multitasking. Remember?”

 

“Yeah. Anyway, he came with an idea that one of the Asgardians had. Guy named Heimdall, sort of a security warden for this thing called a Bifrost. It's a transportation between the nine realms.”

 

“I guess taking a bus would be too mainstream.”

 

“I guess Hawkeye's rubbing off on you.”

 

“We meet up every second Friday to save the world and eat schwarma. Good times.”

 

“Is anyone going to attack you in the next thirty seconds?”

 

“Probably not. Why?”

 

“I went with Thor.”

 

“I hope this isn't some sort of confession, Rogers. But if it is, I can recommend a nice Catholic priest down the street from your new apartment.”

 

“Natasha.”

 

“Steven.”

 

“Listen, please.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Heimdall found him.”

 

“Who, your lost dog?”

 

“Bucky.”

 

Something very unrepeatable and very Russian came from Natasha's mouth. “Where?” she demanded.

 

“A small town in Minnesota.”

 

“When do we leave?”

 

“I can't take anyone with me, Natasha.”

 

“Then why did you tell me?”

 

“I figured you'd want to know he was alive.”

 

“Thanks.” Another scream in the background.

 

“You're welcome. Enjoy your schwarma with Hawkeye this Friday.”

 

“Next Friday, actually, but thanks. Good luck finding him, Steve. Tell him I'm still going to collect on Budapest.”

 

Steve smiled. “Sure thing. Talk to you later.”

 

Natasha tossed out a Russian goodbye and Steve ended the call. Someone knocked on the door and he went to open it. A deliveryman with Stark Industry's logo on it held out a clipboard for him to sign. Once Steve handed the clipboard back, he took the envelope containing the keys and said goodbye. In minutes he was riding north on the interstate.

 

“I'm coming, Bucky. I promise.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something from Bucky's point of view. After all, he's a major character in this story.

In 1960s Russia it was dark. Cold. Snow fluttered down from the clouds and laid a thin white layer over the dished valley between the craggy mountains. The moon had barely risen, slipping through the higher peaks, striping the valley as if peeking through cell bars. Most of the shadows still held their secrets, the light making little difference in the darker regions. Only a few buildings remained standing among the burned remains of a small village.

Another time and another place, modern-day Minnesota held the same harsh atmosphere. The moon had peeked above the horizon just moments ago, its pale blue-white glow insufficient to pierce the shadows in the small ghost town. Most of the buildings had a weather-beaten, broken look to them -- their roofs and walls caved in and their foundations cracked. Loose gates and shutters creaked in whatever breeze blew down the street, chasing a few puffs of dust and pieces of debris ahead of it.

Only the main hall was in any habitable condition. The front half of the buiilding had been destroyed by a fallen tree years ago, but the entrance to the spacious cellar beneath it had been left clear. Only the double doors closed across a flight of concrete steps were secured against the weather. Every so often, a stronger wind would pull at them and rattle the chain wrapped around the inside handles. Past these steps a short corridor branched toward a small room to the left before continuing to the main room. A glassed-in overlook perched at the far end, holding dusty equipment and control boards that had been pushed against one wall among a few boxes of old papers and books. The main room was quiet, but in the front room there was a disturbance.

"No..." One soft word was sighed into the night, barely audible. The body from which the voice came did not move violently enough to attract the gaze of anyone that might have been in the room, but each muscle was tense and each limb quivered. Although the cellar was quiet, it was the passivity of anticipation and dread. The silence broke as a wild, pained voice shrieked a cry that scratched against the cellar doors and broke out into the street. Heels scuffed against concrete as a tall, lithe figure leaped from the bed.

His left arm reflected the half-empty room around him in the same way as the knife in his right hand and the two thin bits of metal hanging from a chain around his neck. Muscles seemed to ripple beneath his gleaming skin, but the humanoid shape was only a nicety designed to pass as normal. The lines of his body were taut, as if drawn with dramatic slashes against his skin. Bare feet shuffled in a circle as he turned to face each corner of the room. Finally the austerity of the room assured him of the absence of any hidden attackers. Although the shadows and ghosts remained, there was no substance to them and they dissipated when the man flicked on a lighter.

Feeble as it was, the small flame cast the man's features into clarity. Dark brown hair fell nearly to his shoulders, the ends of the longer strands brushing against his bare skin. Both grey eyes carried the same fearful, hunted look. Short hairs covered his jaw and only added to his unkempt appearance. His left arm from the shoulder down had a metallic gleam and the red star seemed to be painted in blood. The lighter flicked out, consigning the lithe body to the shadows.

Despite the predawn darkness, the man moved with surety. His hand moved the doorknob, and he stood aside as if expecting an enemy to strike the moment he opened the door. Then he moved down the hallway, the bare cement cool beneath his feet. A short trip brought him to the basement proper, nothing more than a large concrete pad encased by four metal walls. Many abandoned warehouses were available in this quarter of town, but this one had the fewest barriers inside it. From within and without, it had never given an indication of his presence. The man turned right after crossing the basement floor and climbed the stairs to the office overlooking the space. On the desk inside was a lamp, which responded to the metal fingers clicking against its base and shed a soft bluish-purplish light over the top of the desk. Beneath the blacklight's soft glow, lighter colours seemed luminescent, but the light was dark enough that it had a smaller effect on the man's night vision than a normal bulb.

The man took a notebook and dull pencil from one of the desk's drawers. From the outside both looked unused, but as the man opened his journal it showed signs of recent use in the dates scrawled in the upper corners of each page. The dogtags ticked against the metal-rimmed edge of the desk as their owner sat in the swivel chair. He paused for a moment, then began to write.

_Sometimes I think I know what I did. I see a building or person; I hear shooting or crying. For a moment I am in a different time and place. Other terrain is under my feet, other clothes cover my body. As I begin to remember the vision fades, leaving me alone in the time I have been forced to adjust to. There is neither rest nor peace for me. Instead there is incessant torture of remorse that nobody else could understand. When I first realized what I had done, in the turmoil after realizing what I'd been moulded into, I wanted to talk to someone. To confess. I think, in that first impulse, if they had asked me to cast myself into the Sun to atone for my sins I would have done it._

_But anyone I spoke to would have asked questions. I can't explain what it's like to have someone rip out who I am and replace me with a murderer. During the war I saw carnage, but during the Lost Years - that's all I could think to call them at first and the name wouldn't be replaced - I_ felt _the bloodlust. Even the images attacking my mind aren't as frightening as the thought that some part of me must have had the potential to do everything Pierce asked. The potential to want it, and maybe even enjoy it._

_I've seen people do things that they would never have wanted to, just so they could live. Sometimes I remember everything about the situation, down to the colour of the carpet on the floor. But more often than not it's just two people, myself and my opponent. One dream returns over and over. I had it again tonight, or this morning, whichever the case may be. I'm not sure which side of midnight the dream came on. A young woman, dressed professionally, stands in front of a huddle of scared children. Nothing more fearsome than a pair of scissors is in her hand but I shoot her three times. The dream always ends before something happens to the children. My fear is that it stops because the Winter Soldier did something that James Barnes won't let himself remember. My hope is that even as an anti-human I still had some humanity. I don't know if I could believe whichever I was told to be true._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why on earth did I wait so long to update?! I'll try to get on a more frequent posting schedule, I promise. Since I'll be doing it all on my phone, probably short weekly or bi-weekly chapters.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been too long... Sorry about that! Nowadays I have a consistent internet source and I'll be able to go back to posting regularly.

“And now an update on one of our most interesting stories. Captain America, known to some as Steven Rogers, disappeared several days ago from his New York apartment. Members of the superhero team known as the Avengers, of which Captain Rogers was a part, have refused to speak to news representatives about his current location and actions. But now, ex-S.H.I.E.L.D. director Maria Hill has stated that, 'Whatever Rogers is doing, I am sure he has a reason'. She denied that Rogers was on an assignment from any superhero or government group that she knew of. Other than that we have no breakthroughs in the situation for which all of New York demands a resolution. Meanwhile, in London...”

Steve turned away from the television as the news anchor moved on to other topics. The resolution that New York was calling for would come. Whether it would include Bucky Barnes was another question. Regardless of what Bucky had done, Steve was determined to at least try to convince him that they should return to Avengers tower together.

He'd called Natasha a few days ago, asking her to keep the rest of the Avengers quiet about where he was going and what his plans were. Although he'd initially doubted Tony's ability to keep his mouth shut, he was sure now that she'd gotten through to him as well as she'd gotten through to the others. The very fact that Stark had been serious and polite throughout the entire press conference the Avengers had held was a testimony to Natasha's abilities. Banner had moved down to South America to do some research and volunteer work but had kept to his mission of handling Dr. Zola's research and looking for any hints about the Winter Soldier serum. Thor had disappeared back to Asgard, but Steve considered his help with Heimdall to be more than an ample contribution to the search.

His entire trip, as well as its reasons and whatever came of his actions, would have to be kept top-secret. The Avengers would claim he had been investigating potential Hydra agents, producing a few names pulled from S.H.I.E.L.D. files in defense. Whoever was listed there was either dead or a legitimate threat, so even nosy reporters would have something to be satisfied with. In the future his fake mission would very likely become his real one. For now he was working to find someone much more important. It still surprised him that the Avengers had agreed to help him with his quest and its intended end. Clint had asked down-to-earth questions that had been hard to answer – “How do we know Bucky won't go all Russian assassin and try to murder us?” – but had been just as blunt in his words of support.

But Bucky had proved to be hard to find. After arriving in the capital city of Minnesota late last night, Steve had rented a room in a roadside motel and had fallen into a deep sleep. This morning, he'd woken just in time to catch the morning news. During commercial breaks he'd impatiently switched between other news channels. Nothing had shown up, in the last hour and a half, that suggested Bucky was in the area. He wished again that Heimdall's information had been more specific, but his thoughts were swiftly followed by gratitude that he had any lead at all. Without the vague description of a small town near the capitol of Minnesota, he'd have no idea where to look. In fact, he wouldn't have even known that Bucky was still in the United States.

Steve reached over and used the remote to shut off the television. He didn't have much luggage, only what he'd been able to fit in the saddlebags of the motorcycle currently parked between the bed and the window. It didn't take him long to shower and change clothes. The local fast-food place would give him something to eat as he waited for a laundromat to clean his clothes. Not to mention that he'd have time to peruse the local newspapers.

After breakfast, Steve was no closer to finding information about Bucky. He hadn't dared speak with the waitress at the diner for fear of revealing himself, so he'd struck up a conversation with a homeless man on the corner for the price of a hot cup of coffee.

“New guy in town?” the old man had asked, appending a little cackle after his words. “Heh, heh, heh. A man without friends, keeps to himself, a little shaggy looking? Dark hair?”

Steve's heart thudded against his skin. “You – You've seen him,” he said, fighting the stammer in his voice. “Where?”

“On that corner, every day. Heh, heh, heh. There's four or five of him that meet at the church every day at noon, to get fed.”

“Four or five of him?” Steve repeated, his faith in the man's intel fading.

“That description fits most of the people without a home here. If you're looking for someone specific, then specific is what you'll have to be.” The play on words seemed to amuse the old man and he laughed again.

“Thanks for your help,” Steve said. He left the old man sitting at the bus stop, still laughing. It seemed as though his initial failure had cast a pall over the rest of his endeavours that day – he learned nothing. At noon, he'd taken a seat in the lobby of the city library across the street from the church. He had, as the old man had said, seen half a dozen men that could, physically, almost match Bucky. But there was something graceful, familiar, longed for, that was missing from each of them. The rest of the day, he'd cruised the city on his motorcycle, or gone on foot, asking at homeless shelters and soup kitchens for information about any newcomers in town. Nobody he heard about heated the tiny spark buried inside him that flamed into joy at the mention of Bucky.

As dusk fell across the city, Steve had returned to his motel room with a pizza, city maps, markers, and a legal-sized notepad. He laid the papers from the Winter Soldier's file across his bed and spread one of the city maps across the bedside table once he'd placed the lamp and alarm/radio clock on the floor. The librarian he'd spoken to had been an immense help, once Steve had said his nephew had run away from home and he was looking for him. She had marked the homeless shelters in purple highlighter, and the soup kitchens and restraunts that fed those in need in orange. Places where teens and others gathered out of the way of prying eyes were shaded in blue. In the western side of town, an orange and a blue dot were separated by little more than a baseball field, and Steve decided that was a likely place to start.

His Bucky had never been one to accept help he didn't need, so Steve was guessing he wouldn't want to stay at a shelter unless the weather turned bad. But despite his own dislikes, Bucky knew better than to let pride and personal preferences get in the way of the down-to-earth business of keeping himself alive. The programming he'd received as the Winter Soldier would have highlighted common sense; Bucky would have done what was necessary to eliminate targets even if he didn't want to.

What was necessary might also have been illegal. Steve crossed the room to where he'd hung his jacket on the doorknob and took a cell phone from the front pocket. It was a “burner” phone, usable only for a few days before becoming worthless. Realizing that others would doubtless like to get their hands on the assassin's skill, regardless of the man's soul, Steve had left behind any of his belongings that could have been traced. Tony kept track of where Steve was with technology similar to the burner phones, using encryptions that would irrevocably destroy the information it protected at a moment's notice. Each time Steve got a new burner phone he updated Stark with his location and new number.

Now he needed to contact Tony for a new purpose. He texted him his request – “Send me files on any Minnesotan self-defense or theft crimes with perpetrators that could be Bucky.” – and put the phone in his pocket. It was entirely possible that Bucky had run into trouble getting what he needed for himself. It was even more likely that he'd stolen food for himself, since he had no income. The phone in his pocket beeped to announce a new message and Steve withdrew it.

“Will get you files by midnight. Stark.”

“Thanks. Please include locations of abandoned sectors or towns in-state ASAP.”

“Sure.”

Steve could think of nothing else Stark could help him with. He'd left his laptop back at home or he would have asked Stark to hack into city security cameras and send him the video feed. At the moment, he could only try to think like a brainwashed Russian assassin stranded in a country he didn't remember and a time he'd never known. Just putting the description together hurt Steve, and his jaw clenched for a moment before he made himself relax. He crouched on the carpet and turned the radio part of the alarm clock on. In a few minutes he'd found a station that played instrumental jazz and classical music, and he left it playing as he returned his attention to the papers spread out before him.

Steve had purchased a duplicate of the map the librarian had marked. He replicated the locations and drew lines between like places, searching for places where the paths of homeless people might cross the steps of a man on the run. A few intersections and roads caught his eye and he listed them on the second page of the legal pad, shading a thumbnail of colour next to the names to indicate what was there.

Tomorrow would be taken up in driving around the city reconnoitering. He had a few pictures of Bucky but all were black-and-white or of the Winter Soldier. Stark had used his tech to color the old Army pictures but Steve still found them strange. For tomorrow, though, they would be best to use. After all, he could hardly ask people if they'd seen an international assassin wandering around the city. If Bucky had cleaned up so his appearance would be a little different, the older pictures would be a better match anyway.

If he was here. If he was alive.

The two thoughts were linked together, and Steve didn't appreciate the way the second fed on the fears generated by the first. It was entirely likely that Bucky had moved on from Minnesota, and there was even a chance that he'd been killed somehow. Attempted crime often ended up with a trip to the city morgue-, and even though Bucky was different from the average wanna-be criminal, he couldn't outrun a bullet. Steve had been shot before himself, and he knew just how fast things could go wrong. Bucky, however, would have nobody to rely on and nobody to trust.

Maybe, Steve thought, it would be worth his time to check the locations of hospitals and medical clinics in the city. Reassure himself that Bucky hadn't run into any trouble recently. Any hospital he'd been taken to on his way here would have recognized the metal arm and had him taken into police custody. Bucky wouldn't have reached Minnesota. The news would have been all over the papers and television.

Steve finished his planning sometime near midnight and placed all his papers in his motorcycle's saddlebags. One by one, he would cross the names of places and roads off his list, until he had nowhere else to search. Then he'd move out in a circular pattern, looking through small towns in exactly the same way.

For now, though, he needed to sleep. He switched off the radio, then the lights, but found he wasn't quite ready for bed yet. In the silent darkness, the possibility of finding Bucky seemed farther away than ever. Steve went to the window and pushed back the curtains just enough to let him see out, the glass cool against his skin. Earlier he'd cracked it open, and he could feel the lower temperature of the outside air as he leaned against the wall. “Are you here, Bucky?” he asked the empty parking lot. “Are you okay?”

There was no answer. All the other motel rooms were quiet at this late hour, and the businesses around this part of town had been locked up before dark. Nothing moved, not even a raccoon or a few leaves in a breeze. The smells of cleaning spray and cigarette smoke had faded from the walkway. A dog barked somewhere far across the city but quieted in a few minutes. Headlights flowed smoothly across Steve's chest as a car u-turned in the street and sped off. If Bucky was out there, if he'd heard, he didn't answer.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't say how sorry I am for disappearing! However.... new computer equals a posting schedule!

The man dropped the pencil on top of the notebook and leaned back in his chair. His gaze swept across the half-empty warehouse, checking for enemies, before turning to the dogtags now clenched in his metal hand. One was stamped in Russian and would have translated to the code name under which he had slaughtered for decades. The other had given him his true name and country – Sergeant James Barnes of the American military. Without those few short lines of letters, he would have only been the man found in a snowy valley, the Russian mercenary who had died and yet was born on an operating table. It was due to the few words on the American tags that he had been able to learn his story. Public computers at electronics stores and libraries had afforded him brief moments to learn before a shredded conscience forced him away. One look from a fellow person was enough to drive him away.

It hadn’t taken him long to find S.H.I.E.L.D.’s files, somehow exposed on the internet for anyone to see. From there, it had been easy to find out what had happened to Captain America, also known as Steve Rogers. Although Sgt. Barnes had had few memories of Rogers, nearly everything he found about himself – as James Barnes and not the Winter Soldier – showed them together. He had learned his own history, nickname, and character from soulless print on a page. He had learned that he alone of all his comrades had cheated death. But he still didn’t know if he should consider Rogers to be an enemy.

Something inside him needed to get out. He needed to get out. The nightmares and hallucinations wouldn't stop reminding him of their presence. Each time, they were everyday things bringing the battlefield closer, sometimes to his very hands. Clothing became splattered with blood instead of sweat. More than once, Bucky had heard the slam of a door or a backfiring car as a gunshot. A teenager’s pouty sigh convulsed into the pain-dulled huff of the breath leaving a stabbed victim’s body. The stench of the city’s vehicles and trash transformed to the pungent blood and vomit of a fight. In this abandoned Minnesotan ghost town, there was nothing and nobody left. He could live in physical peace as his mind fought itself.

The city itself needed cleansing, but not nearly as much as Bucky did. He closed the notebook and slipped it back into its drawer, a new habit of shame and guilt telling him to hide what was written. A rat scurried across an exposed beam in the ceiling, pausing to eye Bucky warily as it twitched its whiskers. Bucky's fingertips instinctively moved to brush against the hilt of the knife he wore even at night, but he forced himself to move his hand away. He didn't need to kill. He didn't need to maim. The rat scurried along the beam to disappear into the wall and Bucky sighed. He needed to find a way to make up for what he'd done. But first – did he deserve to be first? – he needed to find out who he was.

On the corner of the shelf above the desk, a radio crackled static as its signal was interrupted. If Bucky looked outside, the clouds would cover the moon, bathing the city with darkness. Within six hours, though, the sun would be rising. And with another day would come another need for food. He glanced at the radio and computer monitor on the desk, remembering the messages he'd found by using them. All the passcodes and contacts he'd learned from being the Winter Soldier were still viable and valuable. Underworld networks had been chattering for several days about an upcoming event in a town not far from Bucky's current hideout, but nobody seemed to know when. Bucky wanted to know, wanted to stop people from getting hurt, but also wanted to feel the concussion as a building exploded and the flames heated the air against his skin.

It didn’t take him long to prepare for the world. It was too risky to have any part of his metal arm showing, so long sleeves were the dress code now, whether they were button-downs reminiscent of his lost era or sweater-like shirts. Today it would be a pullover, dark grey in colour and light in weight. Military style cargo pants, a zippered dark blue hoodie, a leather belt with knife sheath, and black combat boots completed his outfit. He’d broken in to several different small stores at first, paying when he could, but he rarely had change from daily food bills. Searching through restraunts’ trash cans and going to soup kitchens had kept him alive, but he hated each time he had to steal or take charity. He often wondered if he’d always been like that, but recently it had seemed easier and easier to do things most people would have refused to consider. He hoped it wasn’t a carryover from his Winter Soldier days. He hoped nothing from that time would remain.

There was nothing of value in the cellar but Bucky still wrapped the chain around the handles of the doors. Few people would have been around it, and those that were wouldn't have bothered with it, but Bucky’s guilty conscience followed him more consistently than the nightmares. He pulled the hood of his jacket over his head, put his hands in the pockets, and walked down the main road of the ghost town. By nightfall he would be in the bigger city, and he would stay there until whatever was going to happen would happen. From there, he would decide on a new direction. There wasn't much else he could do.


	5. Chapter 5

Steve's phone alarm went off early. He really hated that sound. After a long night of going over the sparse information he had, he wished he could sleep in, but if he was going to find Bucky that wasn't an option. He groaned as he pushed the blankets back and turned the alarm off. On his way into the bathroom, he pushed in the power button on the television set and turned up the volume by a few notches. Late last night he had left it tuned to a news station, so hopefully he would be able to learn something this morning before he left for another day of searching. So far, using the news stations as a resource had been a waste of his time, but he had to remain optimistic. Though everything he'd done had been fruitless, eventually something would have to change.

Today would be a trial of his endurance, and his patience. Last night, the heavens had grumbled as small storm cells formed and broke apart all through the darker hours. It seemed like this morning would be no different, and Steve realized that he would have to buy a raincoat somewhere if he wanted to stay dry. A few times last night he'd been woken by loud peals of thunder, and he'd half-believed Thor was about to show up with news from Heimdall, but all life forms in the neighbourhood had definitely originated on Earth. Or, as some would call it, Midgard. Steve had gotten used to Thor's referral of the realms by their Asgardian names, but it sometimes seemed strange to think that such a man as Thor could find things interesting on this planet. To someone born here, nothing was out of the ordinary. Yet Asgard was the unique realm to those on Earth.

Bucky would have loved the trip to Asgard that had started Steve's search, and he would have loved the preparations for the journey. Instead of Steve's terse delivery, Bucky would have bantered with Natasha in Russian, giving her information highly flavoured with humour. The ride down the interstate would have turned into a race whenever a long stretch of empty road was ahead of them. Every night they would have stopped at some bed-and-breakfast, charming dinner out of the staff and staying up half the night so they could flip through the channels on the television. At least, that's what Steve would have expected from his best friend, known to him only by a nickname until his mother had shrieked his full name down the street one day when he'd been in trouble. What would the modern-day Bucky think of Steve's excursion to help him? If Steve was lucky, the same thing. If he was lucky, he'd get his friend back again.

For now, the challenge that Steve needed to face wasn't what Bucky would think of things. It was finding him in the first place. The town he'd stayed in for the last few days had given him no information, no leads, no clues. Only a small number of the locations he'd marked on the map were left to explore. After that, he'd be off to some other small town in Minnesota that might be sheltering his friend. Without Heimdall's knowledge that Bucky was in a small or abandoned town, his search would be even more hopeless, but Tony's technology had been almost too adept at finding places that fit Heimdall's parameters. If Steve spent the day searching, he'd get to the next town on his list just in time to get some maps, a hotel room, and dinner. He wouldn't be able to keep up his breakneck pace without wearing himself out, and he'd be no good to Bucky if he was exhausted. Yet he couldn't seem to help racing around wildly like the “NASCAR” vehicles Tony was so interested in. Sometimes it even seemed that Steve had to move faster than the cars; his race was not for a prize but for a life.

The phone rang. Usually, when he was at Avengers tower or his apartment, that was no unusual occurrence. With at least half a dozen superheroes living there at any given time, there was no end of communications. Since today was the last day his burner phone was of any use, it was interesting. And since Steve was currently in a one-person manhunt for an international criminal – one he wasn't intending to bring to a justice system that would likely desire Bucky's execution – it was more than intriguing or any other word Steve would have thought to use. He hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering over the brightly lit screen, and picked it up. “Hello?”

“Hey. Is this Captain Steve Rogers?” asked a familiar voice.

“Sam!” Steve exclaimed. A smile crossed his face, and even though he knew his friend couldn't see it, he was pretty sure the sentiment travelled through the phone network.

“No, man, that's my name. I'm calling for Rogers. How are you doing? I tried calling your normal phone a couple times but it went straight to voicemail. Tony finally sent me this number. Using burner phones, using cash, staying off the grid – tell me what you're up to.”

“I'm still trying to find Bucky. So far, I haven't been able to cover much ground. Nobody seems to have seen anything, or if they have, they're hiding it too well for me to tell. There's no leads or information.”

“Tell me again why you're chasing down the one man who's come the closest to killing you since you fought the Red Skull. And doing it alone? Somehow that doesn't make any sense to me.”

“Because before he was a brainwashed assassin, Bucky was my best friend. He's the only one of my old friends that are still alive. And he still deserves a chance at redemption. He's not a monster, Sam. Not like the Chitauri, or Arnim Zola, or anyone else that's tried to destroy people for the fun of it. He didn't know what was happening to him or what he was doing.”

“Sounds like a good enough reason to me. All right, give me a minute and I'll be on my way.”

“What?”

“Even though you're the oldest Avenger, there's one with more tech know-how than you. Stark gave me your coordinates as well as your phone number. I've got the wings on and I'm flying out to help you look for him.”

“You can't do that, Sam.”

“Well, work at the V.A. has been kind of slow ever since I kind of unofficially joined the Avengers after dropping the S.H.I.E.L.D. helicarrier into the Hudson. I have vacation days from five years saved up so I think I can take some time out. Besides, if you actually find him you might need backup.”

“Backup from one of the few people Bucky would remember he tried to kill? I appreciate your willingness to help, Sam, but I'm not too sure that you coming is a good idea.”

“Of course not. That's why I'm the backup and you're going in first. You're the only one who knows anything about him.”

“But still, are you sure that you want to come?”

“How many more times you gonna ask? Wait, uh, please hold a moment.” About a minute passed before Sam asked, “Steve, are you still there?”

“I'm right here. You didn't run into any trouble, did you?”

“Just had to get my wings out the door and in the sky. I'm en route to your location now. Stark gave me a headset that lets me fly by a map while I'm talking to you. I think it's based off what he uses for his helmet. ETA just over four hours, including stops to refuel the wings. Are you going be on the move by then? I can track you, but I'd like to take the most direct route.”

“I don't think I'll be going anywhere. There's almost another full day of work to do here before I'll be moving on to the next city, and that's only about fifty miles from where I am now. Just so you know, it's looking like today will have a lot of bad weather in my area. Be careful and don't fly into any storms.”

“You sound like my mother, Steve. All right, I'll call you again when I get in town. See you later.”

“Bye, Sam.” Steve cancelled the call and tossed his phone onto the bed. Although he felt a little guilty for distracting Sam from his work at the V.A., he would definitely be glad to have the help. It would be a lot easier to cover a city if he had aerial backup that hadn't been made by Stark. He'd been offered a few drones and even a Mark 40-something suit but had chosen not to put his trust in technology. If Bucky assumed it was Iron Man in the suit, Steve would probably never get the chance to get close enough to talk. Not to mention that Steve didn't want to give Tony another reason to laugh at his grasp of technology, or lack thereof. Human backup had always been his choice.

Today, he'd get through his work as quickly as possible. When Sam showed up, they could make a quick stop at a local restraunt to get something to eat and get a couple hours of rest before moving on again. They could compare notes and hopefully generate some new ideas. Maybe they would even pretend they knew what they were doing. In truth, that was what it all came down to: pretending. Ever since Steve had come out of his self-inflicted coma, he'd been pretending to understand. Sometimes he did. Saving people, hunting evil, the Avengers' business. That was simple. But the rest of it, whether it was a smartphone or the girl next door, tended to confuse him. All the Avengers had been glad to help whenever he'd asked, but he still felt out of place sometimes. That was why he'd taken an apartment on his own. An apartment that, if he was lucky, he'd be sharing soon.

Steve got his things together quickly after he finished his call with Sam. Travelling light as he was, it wouldn't have taken him long even if he'd procrastinated. On his way to the parking lot, he stopped at the front desk and put down enough cash to rent his room for another day. He'd bring Sam back here to work recon instead of wasting time sightseeing. Neither one of them knew what the days ahead would bring. It could be smooth sailing for weeks or they could instantly run into trouble. Taking advantage of pre-existing resources in the field was one of the first things he'd learned when he'd been called on to actually fight in the war.

The town, however, seemed intent to withhold all of its resources that day. Although Steve showed Bucky's picture to at least two dozen people, none of them had shown even the slightest signs of recognizing it. In all probability, Bucky had never been here at all. Minnesota was a big state if you wanted to hide in it, and it had a lot of small towns that fit Heimdall's description. He couldn't have expected to end his quest in the first town he searched. It was far more likely that Bucky would be found in one of the last places Steve could be expected to look in. Once Sam joined him, they'd get some food and a plan. Until then, and afterwards, he'd just have to go by faith.


	6. Chapter 6

St. Paul was a beautiful city, but Bucky hadn't come to the capitol city of Minnesota for its splendour. His quarry was of a far more pragmatic nature – answers. He'd been in the city for two days already but had heard nothing about himself or the situation he was anticipating. So far, it didn't seem like anyone knew anything, but he hadn't been brave enough to dig too deep or ask too many questions. Unlike his previous missions, he had nobody to rely on and no safehouses. This time, he had to take things more carefully.

The St. Paul cathedral was Bucky's main resource. Volunteers provided whatever supplies were donated to them, and work was available for those willing to do it. Bucky helped a few days, snooping as much as he worked. He learned nothing about the small underworld network but learned more than what he needed to about the city and its layout. The cathedral had a small library of religious and historical works, and the priests didn't mind him browsing. One of the priests even encouraged Bucky's learning, checking out some books from the local library for him to read.

It was several days before Bucky learned anything about the event he suspected was due to happen soon. He heard from a Canadian-Minnesotan coyote, or human smuggler, that he and his fellows had been warned to stay off a certain interstate but the coyote wouldn't name his source and Bucky didn't trust him. Bucky wasn't even sure the man was a true coyote, since the border had been open for years. More likely a half-legal tour guide, crossing the border around Niagara Falls on trips but 'forgetting' to get proper credentials for his operation.

The interstate was still a lead he could go on. He left the ground, accessing the maintenance side of the raised interstate and looking for anything out of place. Apart from a newly installed series of lockboxes that looked like electrical breakers, he found nothing. Later that night, after dark, he took a kidnapped utility truck for a ride, tugging the reflective vest over his hoodie and replacing his jeans with company cargo pants. Fortunately, the hard hat had a light on the front, so he was able to keep his hands free. The lockpick set he'd had in his gear since New York would be the most useful tool.

There was nothing out of the ordinary in the first few lockboxes. In the fifth was a clump of wires that Bucky hadn't seen in any of the other boxes and couldn't find on the schematics he'd brought from the utility truck. Sixth and seventh boxes held the same wires, this time accompanied by switches on the bottom of the boxes. Bucky was certain he recognized them as part of a bomb. He couldn't figure out where they went, since the wires were encased in a multilayered hose with a wire mesh that kept Bucky from cutting it open to trace the wires. After leaving whatever didn't have his DNA on it in the truck, Bucky used the phone belonging to the driver to alert the police of the truck's whereabouts and the bridge's secret.

His actions had alerted whoever had planted the explosives. They would know someone was here and cognizant of what they were planning. But Bucky didn't care much about the bridge. It had been one of the smaller fish the criminals had planned on catching. If the police were at all competent, they would sweep the other raised roads and bridges for explosives. The bulk of the work was up to Bucky to do. Whatever attack might happen wouldn't be stopped by normal forces. It would take a super-soldier, and Steve wasn't going to be around. This one was for Bucky to fix.

A week later he was no closer to finding anything. He'd ventured into the darker parts of the city, frequenting badly-reputed bars and wandering around in the alleys. The biggest thing he found was a junkyard with unlocked supply sheds and lazy guard dogs. It was easy for Bucky to climb the fence and cross the roofs to slip through a window. Canned foods, tap water, and ragged blankets were a welcome addition to a sparse lifestyle. The sheds weren't heated but he didn't answer or owe anything to anyone. When he could, he left money or parts by the front office to cover what he 'borrowed'. For a fugitive assassin, it was good enough.

Bucky finally got a break in his investigations almost a week later. He'd managed to get into the police radio network and he'd learned the basic codes the cops used when talking. One night the radios were busy with news and Bucky left the junkyard, heading for St. Paul's cathedral. When he got there, police cars and deputies were surrounding the building and the entire place was on lockdown. Pedestrians and vehicles were being rerouted to other streets, even news reporters and volunteers. A fire truck came down the main road, its siren screeching and its lights illuminating half the street.

Bucky flinched and retreated farther back from the edge of the rooftop he was hiding on. Since the police had gotten here ahead of him, it would be harder to get where he needed to be. He'd left an access door on the roof unlocked the last time he'd been there and now he would use it to get back inside. Two blocks of street had been roped off, and he moved across the rooftops until he got closer to the cathedral. Now he'd have to blow his cover, expose himself, to get inside. On the last roof before the cathedral, he backed up as far as he could and started running. Even with his running start, only the front half of his body made contact with the platform below the door. Without his metal arm he would have fallen to his death, and even now he was struggling to get both feet to safety. Below him, cops started yelling and half a dozen spotlights were focused on him. His heart beat even faster as memories of HYDRA's training swept over him.


	7. Chapter 7

The radio clock went off, tuned into the heavy rock station the previous owner had left it on. Steve shut off the alarm and went into the bathroom to shower. When he was done he left the door open behind him and went into the bedroom.

“Hey,” Sam said. “Take a look at this. Minnesotan problem.”

“Listening,” Steve promised. He picked up his toothbrush and toothpaste and went back into the bathroom. The sound of the water running almost covered the sound of the television set but he could still hear the announcer clearly.

“This morning, police searches prompted by an anonymous tip two days earlier provoked a dire situation at St. Paul's cathedral in St. Paul, Minnesota.” Steve turned the velocity of the tap down and put his hands on the counter, staring at the reflection of the television in the mirror. “Explosives had been found on five bridges and raised interstates around the city after a person or persons unknown called the police with the location and identification of the devices on the first. Now gunmen have taken possession of the cathedral, and at least three of them have been positively identified as being at the top of national and international most-wanted lists. Pending identifications place two more gunmen near the top of the same lists.”

Steve came out of the bathroom, interested now. The event was both local and intense. Maybe there was a chance that Bucky would have heard and would be near the scene. He couldn't see any details of the cathedral, since it seemed that the police had pushed everyone back, but there were plenty of law enforcement officials and lights. On second thought, it didn't seem like the kind of place Bucky would go to if he was still in the dark about his past. Did he still not know his own identity? “Who the hell is Bucky?” had haunted Steve for weeks after the day on the bridge. Maybe this news report would give him a hint.

“Oh my God,” came from the station's on-scene reporter and Steve's attention was brought back to the news. A camera moved to focus on the side of the cathedral adjacent to the main road. “Ben, are you getting this in the studio? Somebody just jumped from the roof of the building across from the cathedral onto some scaffolding erected for repairs. It seems like whoever it is barely made the jump. He's hanging on for now but I'm not sure if he'll make it. For those watching, this is a real-time development in the situation.”

The camera zoomed in on the man hanging half off the platform and Steve moved closer to the screen. For now the man was facing away from the cameras, but his hair was the right colour and length, and his build was the same as the lithe, strong body he'd thought had stilled forever in a snowy European valley. Even if the man was a stranger, Steve hoped he would get to safety.

“There!” exclaimed the reporter. “He's safely on the platform.” The man rolled to the side and got to his feet, glancing toward the crowd on the street below. The distance and unstable camera made his face blurry but barely recognizable. Steve's gaze moved to the man's face, searching for familiar features, and found them. “It seems like the service door on the cathedral's roof was left open, and our mystery man is entering the cathedral. Hopefully his involvement won't make this situation any more difficult.”

“Think it might be him?” Sam asked.

Steve started throwing his things into his bags. In just over a minute he was ready to leave, and he waited only for the commercial break before leaving the room. Left without answers, Sam hurriedly got his things together, put his wing harness on over his clothes, and followed Steve. Steve called Tony as he was leaving the motel, giving him a brief explanation of the situation. “Right now, I'm on the road going to the scene and Sam's right behind me. Avengers clearance will get me in as far as I need to go. Bucky is in there and I need to help him with whatever he's doing. Can you keep me updated as things go along?”

“Sure. Just be careful, Cap,” Tony warned. “Don't make any bad press for us. We've got enough going on back home.”

“What's wrong?” Steve asked. He revved his bike engine and took off, out of the parking lot and down the street. Sam ran out into the parking lot and activated his wings, taking off and following him.

“Bad press after an incident,” Tony explained. “Tabloids are saying the team is unstable and falling apart. We've had Banner take some off time. He went with Thor to travel with him and Jane out in the mountains somewhere. Didn't need him going green and making things worse. I'm the only one at Avengers tower for now, but I'm having a good time tinkering.” Something clanged in the background and Tony grunted a few unrepeatable words. “Ow! No worries, I'm fine.”

“All right, just see what you can do. I'll be careful. Call me every thirty minutes or when something happens.”

“You got it, Cap. See you.” Tony was already yelling instructions to one of his mechanical assistants as he cut the call.

Steve pushed the speed limits on his way to St. Paul. The drive wasn't far, but with the backed-up traffic and Steve's worry, it seemed to take twice as long. By the time Steve got to the city limits of St. Paul, Tony had called three times with a “no news is good news” quip and heavy metal music playing in the background. A block or so from the cathedral, Steve changed from his street clothes into his Captain America uniform, complete with shield and comlink back to Avengers tower. He left his bike and belongings on the street and Sam landed next to them, dropping his own things nearby. As Steve had guessed, his Avengers clearance got them past the police barricades and to the front line of the law force surrounding the cathedral.

“Captain America, sir,” said one of the officers, giving a sharp salute. “We weren't expecting any of the Avengers to be here.”

“No worries,” Steve replied. “I wasn't expecting to be here myself until I saw what was happening on the news.”

“Why are you here, then, sir?”

“Just doing our nine-to-five day job, running 'round saving the world,” Sam remarked.

Steve glared at him and turned back to the policeman. “The man who jumped from the building next door to the scaffolding on the cathedral. I believe he's someone the Avengers have been trying to locate. The last time we had any solid intel on him was when the S.H.I.E.L.D. helicarrier crashed into the river. Ever since then, he's been untraceable.”

“You mean Bucky Barnes, sir?”

Steve and Sam stared at him. “How do you know that?” Steve asked, his voice rasping in his throat.

“Everybody knows about the Avengers,” the cop answered. “It's like a comic book or a movie coming to life. Superheroes, here on earth? Not something you miss. And the Bucky Barnes thing was something that social media really took off with, especially tumblr. Your story, all over again, but with an even more tragic side to it. Most people just want him safe, but there's a few calling for him to answer for his crimes.”

“Which side are you on?” Sam asked suspiciously.

“The side that would forgive a man for what he's done. Barnes is already trying to do that himself, I think. A couple months after the New York incident, cases started popping up all over the Eastern seaboard. People being rescued, by an unknown vigilante that fits Barnes' description. There's no proof of anything, of course, but... my opinion is that it's him.”

“Then I'll need your assistance,” Steve said. “Because if that is Bucky, I'll need help to save him.”

“I can't leave my post, sir,” the policeman objected.

“And I'm not asking you to. But if Bucky comes out of there and into the line of fire, I need you to do your best to protect him. Keep the other men here from shooting at him. Can you do that?”

“As best as I can, sir.”

“Good man. What's your name?”

“Sergeant O'Reilly, sir.”

“If I don't come back out of that cathedral, contact Tony Stark and tell him everything. Good luck out here, Sergeant.” Steve saluted and started for the cathedral. Unlike Bucky, he was planning on taking a more conventional route. “Sam, is your comlink working?”

“I can hear you perfectly,” Sam answered. “Where do you want me?”

“Take the same route as Bucky. Let me know what you find up there. Keep an eye out from the rafters. Run backup for me and Bucky. His safety takes precedence over mine. Understand?”

“Gotcha, Cap. Call me if you need me.” Sam took a running start and lifted off. In a few moments he was at the door Bucky had used to get inside the cathedral. “Nothing up here out of the ordinary. I have a passage along the inside of the dome and a ladder down. It ends in about ten square feet of scaffolding among the rafters. Right now I'm perched on it, no eyes on the main room of the cathedral. Advancing in five seconds.”

“Belay that. Wait for me to call you in. I want eyes on the ground first so they won't start shooting.” Steve glanced around the doorjamb. Most of the cathedral's vast interior was empty, but the first couple rows of the central section of pews were full of people. Half a dozen gunmen were standing in a row at the front of the cathedral, their weapons trained on their captives. Steve retreated into the foyer and spoke quietly into his comlink. “Sam, there's six gunmen holding captives in the front of the cathedral. I don't see Bucky or the other gunmen. Come in when you're ready.”

Sam's answer was his entrance. The gunmen didn't notice his entry until he'd knocked one of them to the stone floor, knocking him out with a kick to the head. In another instant the remaining gunmen attacked. Steve raced down the left-hand aisle to the front of the cathedral. “Everybody out!” he shouted. The civilians scattered as Steve engaged the gunmen. Due to the hand-to-hand combat, the gunmen couldn't use their weapons without endangering each other, and it only took a couple hard-fought minutes for Steve and Sam to knock out the last gunman.

“I'll make sure everyone got out,” Sam said, reactivating his wings and flying out into the lobby. He landed just in front of the doors and exited the building, shouting to the officers as he did. Steve worked on binding the men until Sam flew back with the news that, although all known hostages had been evacuated, there were at least five more gunmen at large in the cathedral.

Steve put his shield back on his arm. “We'll take turns searching the rooms, keeping a set of eyes on the main area out here. Keep in touch with the comlinks when you're out of sight. I'll go first.” Steve approached the entrance of the first room quietly, carefully disengaging the doorknob and swinging open the door. As soon as he appeared in the doorway, someone in the room opened fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry-not-sorry for the cliffhanger.


	8. Chapter 8

Bucky had always thought of his metal arm as a curse, but tonight it saved him. Without its strength he never would have been able to pull himself to a place of safety without serious injury. Once he was on his feet, it took only seconds to get to the door leading into the cathedral. It was long enough for the news cameras pointed at him to get a good view of his face, and he quickly ducked inside the building. He was positive someone would identify him soon, if they hadn't already.

Inside the cathedral, it was quiet and hot. He crouched as he came to the scaffolding among the rafters, checking the room below before dropping down to the thin planking. It held his weight easily and he moved quickly to the ladder. The soles of his boots rang against its metal rungs, the sound echoing in the empty room.

So far there was no sign of the gunmen or hostages that had been reported. Bucky guessed they'd be in the actual cathedral instead of one of the side rooms. Practicality would have suggested locking the hostages in an empty room with a few guards, but Bucky guessed the gunmen would be going for theatricality as well. Otherwise they wouldn't have stormed the city's most recognizable building with machine guns in the middle of the day. That meant if he was caught, they would want to make an example of him rather than kill him right away. He would have to be careful to keep out of their reach or he'd be in severe trouble.

His approach was cautious. There were a few rooms between his entry point and the main hall of the cathedral, but all were empty. He moved through them quickly, but stopped before entering the last room. As he stood against the wall next to the doorway, trying to decide his course of action, two men armed with machine guns came into his room. Bucky immediately took action, chopping his metal hand against the throat of the man closest to him. He grabbed the gun out of limp hands and shoved the stock into the stomach of the other man, then slammed it into the back of his skull. Since both men fell inside the room, he kicked the door closed and started taking inventory of their supplies. Other than weapons and about a hundred dollars in cash, he found nothing.

“Attention!” shouted one of the gunmen in the cathedral. “We have many people hostage. If you do not come out of that room, unarmed, in the next ten seconds–” A woman screamed and Bucky flinched. “One of my men now has his gun on a hostage. A person will die every ten seconds until you surrender yourself. I can guarantee that your resolve will end before our supply of prisoners.”

Bucky said several volatile words in several languages. The spokesperson was correct in saying that Bucky's resolve wouldn't last. It was gone as soon as they had threatened to kill someone. “All right,” he shouted, “I'm coming out. Don't shoot them.” He left his weapons on the floor, put a hand behind his head, and used the other hand to open the door. Four guns were already trained on his position, another gunman had his weapon held to the head of a young woman, and the sixth had his gun pointed toward the rest of the hostages.

“It's you!” exclaimed the man who had spoken before. He spoke in a slow voice that showed how he savoured every word. “James Barnes, the Winter Soldier. The Russian assassin who disappeared from New York. The master killer.”

“That's not who I am,” Bucky denied.

“So there's another man with a metal arm.”

“My name is Barnes,” Bucky confessed. “But the killings... the murders... that wasn't me. I didn't do that.”

“I don't care,” the man cut in. “Right now, the important thing is that we have a hostage. One that the Avengers would want back.”

“Steve would put the other hostages before me,” Bucky said.

“I doubt it. You are an important man, Mr. Barnes. Come over here. Slowly.”

Bucky obeyed, making no sudden moves and keeping both hands behind his head. He let the four men approach him and handcuff his hands behind his back. Once he was secured, they shoved him roughly toward the front of the cathedral. The gunmen pushed him to his knees in front of their leader and pulled his head back.

“I'm not surprised to see you, Barnes,” the spokesman said. “You never knew that your handlers inserted a tracking device under your skin. So, as you may have guessed by now, we wanted you to come here. This was our plan all along, the plan that would get you back under our control.”

“You're HYDRA agents.” Bucky already knew the answer but he still feared it.

“You're coming with us, unless you want all of these hostages slaughtered on your behalf.”

Two of the soldiers pulled Bucky to his feet. At a nod from their leader, they guided him down the aisle. Near the entrance to the lobby, they pushed him into a side room. Two soldiers followed them inside, their weapons ready to shoot Bucky if he made a move. One motioned to a chair with his rifle and Bucky sat down. Movement and noise exploded in the main hall of the cathedral. The two soldiers nearest the door trained their weapons on the doorway and the other two pointed their guns at Bucky. In a few minutes, the noises from the fighting stopped and the hostages ran to freedom.

One of the men who had rescued the hostages started giving orders. Bucky started to yell a warning but the soldier closest to him slammed the stock of his rifle into the side of his head. Bucky was knocked to the floor as someone opened the door and the two soldiers started shooting.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I updated yesterday but I've written the story all the way through chapter eighteen* and I'm dying to get you guys caught up with what I've got :P This finishes up the chapel scene, but there's definitely still more happening in this location.
> 
> [This installment of the fic only goes to chapter fifteen. Chap. 16 will kick off the second installment of the series. I have no idea how long this will run, but I'll try to keep it to fifteen-chapter increments, each with a contained storyline that fits into the overall plot.]

If it wasn't for his shield, Steve would have died in just a few seconds. Most of the bullets pinged off it, but two grazed his thigh and he let out a brief shout of pain before gritting his teeth. Someone inside the room gave a strangled kind of yelp but Steve couldn't tell who or why. Behind him, he could hear the click-whirr of Sam activating his wings, and Steve tossed the shield to his partner as he stepped out of the way. Sam caught it and flew into the room with it held in front of him. He knocked out the two men closest to the door in seconds, and the others didn't last much longer.

“Hey, Cap,” Sam shouted. “I knocked out four guys but there's five laying on the floor here.” He backed out of the room and handed the shield back to Steve.

“Who was the fifth guy?” Steve asked.

“I don't know. I didn't wait to get a good look in case he decided to try to shoot me. Figured you could handle the shield better than me if that was the case. You good going in there on your own?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“We're still missing a gunman, so I'm gonna keep an eye on the main room while you check it out.”

Steve held the shield in front of him, angling it to deflect any bullets, as he entered the room. He took only one step at a time, cautious of what he would find inside. None of the men on the floor moved. The two closest to him were unmistakeably from the same group as the other six gunmen Steve and Sam had taken out. The next two were the same. Behind them was a single man bound to a chair that had been knocked over. Steve inhaled sharply and nearly choked himself in his shock. He knew who this man was. Knew his name, knew his history, knew his face.

“You okay?” Sam asked.

“It's Bucky. The fifth man is Bucky.” Steve laid his shield against one of the legs of the chair and started searching the pockets of the men on the floor. “Take a look on the other six men, see if you can find the keys to some handcuffs.”

“On it,” Sam agreed. He jogged down the aisle and started rummaging through the mens' pockets. In a couple minutes he came back and tossed the key to Steve.

Steve unlocked the handcuffs and threw them aside. For now, it seemed like Bucky wasn't conscious, but his breathing was steady and untroubled. Blood trickled from a wound on Bucky's temple, and Steve guessed that the wound was the cause of his unconsciousness.

“Steve, do you want to let the cops round up the last gunman?” Sam asked. “We can be finished here. If we hold them off until Bucky comes back around, I can take him out by the same way that we came in and we'll be out of here before anyone gets the chance to stop us. Unless he tries to kill me again, in which case I'm not helping you out. I don't think the cops would let you just walk out of here with him, though. I know that one guy is on our side, but we can't tell about the rest of them. We need to play it safe or somebody might get hurt.”

“Yeah, that's what I'm worried about.” Steve found another chair and sat down, pensively turning the key to the cuffs over in his hands. “I don't know how much Bucky remembers about us, or if he remembers anything at all. When we were on the helicarrier, I know he recognized me, but since then I haven't even heard anything to let me know he was alive. Sam, what if he's more like the Winter Soldier than my friend?”

“Then I'll help you bring him back,” Sam said casually, as if he was offering to help Steve carry in the groceries. “Remember back in the forties, when you led a dangerous mission deep into enemy territory to rescue him? If you were that close back then, no matter what happened since, there's gotta be something you can work with today.”

“I hope so.” Steve said. Bucky groaned and turned his head to the side. “Bucky?” Steve asked. “Hey, it's okay. It's okay. You're safe now.”

Bucky rolled over onto his side and coughed twice, his voice barking harshly in his throat. He stayed in that position for a moment before rolling onto his stomach and pushing himself up to his hands and knees. He managed to get to a standing position but stayed hunched over, a hand on his side. It was obvious from the bloodstain now revealed on his shirt that his ribcage had suffered from the impact of his body against the floor.

“Bucky, tell me where it hurts,” Steve said. He laid a hand on his friend's shoulder but Bucky jerked away.

“Get away,” Bucky said, his voice hoarse. “You've got to go.”

“I'm not leaving you again,” Steve said. “I'm staying with you, Bucky. I don't care what happens next.”

“There's HYDRA agents in the church. Run.”

“We took out ten. How many did you see?”

“I don't know. Why are you here?” Bucky asked.

“I saw the hostage situation on the news. And then I saw you, and I had to come.”

“Were you looking for me?” Bucky's voice held a tone of incredulous hope, as if he couldn't believe Steve had wanted to find him.

“Of course.”

Bucky stood up straight and took a few steps, unsteady but able to support himself. His hand slid against the wall as if he'd fall on his face without the support.“You shouldn't have been trying to track me down. Get out of here, Steve. It's not safe.”

“Hey. What's he talking about?” Sam asked, wary.

“My handlers put a tracking device in me,” Bucky answered. “They could have added explosives. Get out of here, Steve. I'm not safe.”

“I'm not leaving you,” Steve said. “Remember? I'm with you till the end of the line.”

Bucky nodded, a look of recognition on his face. “The old railroad... The helicarrier.”

Steve smiled in relief. “You remember. Sam, get out of here and get Tony on the line. Tell him what's going on and get him to come help us.”

Bucky stayed silent as Sam obeyed and left the room. After Sam was gone, he looked up at Steve. “Can I get something out of the back room or are you gonna babysit me?” He glanced at Steve's face then looked away, biting his lip.

Steve smiled. “You know I'd like to keep an eye on you. But I also know that I won't be able to keep you safe on my own, not forever. You're free. Always have been.”

“I'll be back,” Bucky said, moving toward the door of the room.

“Wait,” Steve said, getting to his feet and stepping in front of him. He laid a hand on Bucky's shoulder, noted his friend's flinch, and removed it. “Promise me you'll keep in touch. Promise you'll come back.”

Bucky nodded, a smile ghosting across his lips for a moment before disappearing. “Always,” he said quietly. “I don't know when, but – someday. I promise.”

“Let me give you the address of the place I'm staying for a few days,” Steve requested. He fumbled in his pocket for a piece of paper and found the receipt for the room, with the motel's logo and address printed on it. “Room 12.”

Bucky took the paper wordlessly but nodded. He was gone moments later.

A few minutes after his departure, Steve left the room as well and went toward the lobby, where Sam stood talking on the phone. Steve motioned with his hand and Sam handed the phone over. “Listen, Bucky disappeared. Do not, under any conditions, send anyone after him or let anyone know. Keep him a secret. I'll call you back tomorrow morning. Thanks, Tony.” He cut the call and handed the phone back to Sam.

“'Bucky disappeared'?” Sam asked. “How did that happen?”

“I let him go,” Steve explained. “He wasn't ready to come home yet. When he is ready, he knows how to find me. He knows I'll take him back.”

“So you just let him walk away?”

“Yeah.”

“And you think he'll call you when he's 'ready' to let you pick him up?”

“Yeah.”

Sam stared at Steve as if the latter had lost his mind. Then he shrugged and said, “Okay. It's your call.” He pocketed his phone and followed Steve toward the entrance of the cathedral. “Where to next?”

“For us? Right now, no idea. For Bucky? Someday, home.”


	10. Chapter 10

Bucky didn't waste time leaving the cathedral. A few police officers noticed him and shouted for him to stop, but although they shot at him several times each bullet missed. Within moments Bucky lost himself in the maze of side streets and tall buildings. He punched in a window pane a few streets away from the cathedral, took cover in the building until a few police officers ran past, and went to the rooftops as a safer mode of travel than running around on the streets. Not an hour had passed before he was back at the junkyard. The dogs didn't notice him and he quietly made his way to the building that had been sheltering him for the last few weeks. Unlike the past, however, on this night all traces of sleep eluded him.

When the dawn came several hours later, Bucky was already awake. He left the junkyard as the owner drove his car up to the gates. Today he'd have to forgo direct human contact since his face had been on the news. As he approached the street, he pulled the hood of his jacket over his face and put his hands in his pockets. Nobody spared him a glance as he walked down the sidewalk. Several people were standing in front of the closest electronics shop, watching the news on the television sets displayed in the window. Bucky joined them, keeping his head down as he watched.

The TVs were all set to different channels, but each news report was focused on the same topic: the strange man that had leaped from the cathedral roof, then disappeared without a trace. Several of the reporters had tried to get Captain America to share what had happened inside the cathedral, but each time Steve was asked he refused to comment. The man called Sam had activated his wings just outside the cathedral door and taken off into the night sky, provoking speculation but leaving few facts. Bucky had no idea where either of them had gone, but he guessed they'd stay in the city for at least a few days. Regardless of where they chose to rest, Bucky knew he'd be able to reach them as long as he could get access to technology.

One of the people watching the news glanced sideways at Bucky, then glanced back again. He looked the other way and started off down the street toward a fast-food restaurant at the corner. Though he knew himself to be more than capable of whatever threat he was put up against, he'd prefer to keep a low profile as long as he could. At the restaurant he paid a few dollars for some food and a bottle of water and retreated to a nearby park to eat. Little would occupy him for the rest of the day, so he stayed in the park after he'd finished his food. A wooden bench set in the midst of a flowerbed garden gave him a place to sit and gaze curiously at the world. Several families with children had been drawn to the playground, and a couple people were jogging, but other than that it seemed like the city was still asleep. Birds flew overhead, some kind of sparrow, twittering madly in the early-morning quiet.

The morning fogs still hung close above the dew-soaked ground, mingling with some of the low-hanging clouds and giving the park an air of newborn mystery. Whatever voices and noises came to him sounded as if they came from a far distant crowd. Bucky liked it this way. In these moments immediately after dawn it seemed like the world was still pure and brand new, and so was he. Maybe, by the time he'd found it within himself to return to his last remaining friend, it would be less of a dream and more of a reality. A quiet laugh cautiously came out into the morning air, accompanied by an equally shy smile. For an assassin known as the Winter Soldier, such peace was not possible. For a man called Bucky Barnes, however, there might someday be a different story.

Bucky glanced down the road at the foot and vehicular traffic. Clumps of bicyclers crossed the road at the red light. Two joggers stopped in front of the corner café to stretch. A pickup truck, with a trailer holding two horses, turned left at the crossroads and sped up. Farther down the street, a runner passed down the sidewalk and crossed the street, moving with a fluid rapidity that was familiar to Bucky's eyes. He flinched as a memory came back to him, of the same movements carrying an attacking force to him and his fearful, violent reaction. A shudder rippled down his frame, making the morning seem colder, and Bucky stood. He reached as if to scratch at the base of his neck and fluidly segued the motion into pulling his hood over his face. The sidewalk in front of him was devoid of people and he started jogging, hoping to pass himself off as another morning exerciser. The morning stillness remained intact as he left the park and took to the route that would return him to one of his various hiding places. No footsteps followed him, no voice called his name, and he was no longer sure if that was okay. With a last glance backward at the park, he disappeared into the maze of streets and buildings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kinda short, I'm sorry. But OH MY GOD this fic had thirty-five hits in twelve hours! I still can't believe it but I wanted to thank you all somehow so this happen. Many, many thanks to everyone who's read <3 May your OTPs become canon.
> 
> Comments appreciated! Will be updating again on the weekend.
> 
> Edit: So this chapter got 40 hits and two kudos in the first six hours. You guys blow my mind.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter, I'm sorry >.> I promise they'll get longer soon! Thanks for all the hits and kudos!

It wasn't easy for Sam and Steve to get past all the officers stationed outside the cathedral. They had, understandably, wanted to know what had happened inside the cathedral. Both Avengers insisted that the man who had come and left by the roof wasn't a hostile, but it was doubtful that even half the officers believed the story. Steve murmured a few words to Sam and the latter activated his wings, leaving the scene before the officers reached them. Steve remained behind to field inquiries and smooth any ruffled feathers arising from the incident.

Since Sam and Steve hadn't broken any laws, and had undeniably saved lives, the officers were more than happy to let them both go on their way. Since the immediate threat to the area was over, the police chief in charge of the operation shut down the blockade and sent officers in to retrieve the gunmen. Reporters were chattering incessantly in the background but so far none of them were allowed to approach the site. The bomb team seemed to be taking over operations and directing men to different assignments. More than likely they would be the ones in charge until the explosives still inside the cathedral were deactivated.

Steve beckoned Sergeant O'Reilly aside and the officer jogged over. “You were a great help to our mission tonight,” Steve said. “If something happens – if you get intel – if you find him... Can you let me know?”

“Of course, sir,” Sgt. O'Reilly replied, saluting.

Steve scribbled the number for Stark Tower on a scrap of paper and handed it over. “This will connect you to Tony Stark, our communications liaison for this mission. I'll let him know you might be calling. Just do your best to ignore his sarcasm.”

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said, managing to keep an almost straight face. “I'll be sure to do my best.”

Steve saluted in reply and turned away from the scene. His thoughts were rapidly moving years away, to a pair of teenage boys leaving church on a brilliant summer afternoon. Gentle sunlight stenciled their faces in pastel yellows and greens as they chattered. The shorter was too thin and had too much unruly hair, but his grin matched his taller, dark-haired counterpart's in width and emotion. Both were happy, not caring about the approaching threats of school and cold weather. On that day they'd both been loud-mouthed and happy.

Steve reached his bike and placed a brief call to Tony, letting him know that he'd given Sergeant O'Reilly the number. Stark seemed to sense his friend's desire to keep the call short and acknowledged Steve's words with unusual sobriety. After their conversation was over, Steve turned the keys in his bike's ignition and let it idle for a moment as his eyes stared unseeingly down the street. For a moment the town was seventy years younger and full of life, but a shake of the head cleared the vision and let the present-day city remain. Steve gunned the engine and raced his bike toward the highway, letting the breeze run through his hair and wash away his thoughts and the now-painful childhood memories that followed them. Those memories wouldn't feel right until the person that was in them was at his side in the present as well as the too-distant past.

 

Steve sat on the bed, staring across the room at the shield leaning against the wall. He and Sam had gone back to their motel room for the night, but while Sam had fallen asleep instantly, Steve had struggled to rest. Every memory he had from his old life had come back to him, one at a time but faster as the night wore on. Bucky featured in nearly every one of them, whether he was helping or protecting Steve or just sharing a laugh. As the memories became newer, the pain grew stronger. Now, it was three in the morning, and the emotions were too strong to let him sit still.

Steve quietly rose from the bed, crossed the room, and picked up his shield. If he didn't do something, he felt like he'd go crazy. He closed the door quietly behind him and walked down the hallway to the staircase. Moments later he was running through the parking lot, pushing himself faster, sprinting down the sidewalk in an effort to purge his feelings with burning lungs and pumping heart. A dozen miles later, he was no closer to resolving his emotional turmoil but for the time being he felt better. Due to his unfamiliarity with the town, he had no idea where he was, but right now he didn't want to be somewhere that felt safe and predictable. Bucky wouldn't have anywhere like that to go to. The thought turned his inhalation to a choked gasp full of pain, and he bent over with his hands on his knees. A person he knew, his best friend since childhood, was alone behind enemy lines. The story had been played out before, but now there was no chance for Steve Rogers to set aside his emotions and make way for Captain America's skills.

Steve straightened up and started walking down the street. He glanced up at the sky above him, watching the clouds scudding across a blue canvas sprinkled with dots of white. There was an early-morning scent to the view before him that carried a hint of later rain. Birds were still asleep but he heard a few loons calling back and forth. He paused, enchanted with the haunting, lonely sound. It carried everything he felt and shared it with the world. A warbling, uncertain call of hope and loss and please come back. Jerking his wrist up to push away the tears threatening to form in his eyes, Steve started running again. Maybe he'd be able to go so fast he'd leave his thoughts behind.


	12. Chapter 12

It started raining soon after. Bucky zipped up his jacket but left the hood on his shoulders rather than pulling it up to shield his face. He liked the feel of the rain, the way it reminded him that he was still alive and capable of feeling. There had been a tall man in a red cape with Steve on the television once, who had called the rain and lightning to do his bidding. Bucky didn't know his name, but he remembered an almost childish fascination with the electric blue crackling around the man's hammer. The news reporter had called him a god; while Bucky wasn't sure he believed that, he appreciated that there was somebody else out there who was called to the storm.

Thunder rumbled quietly, warning that the storm wasn't over yet, but Bucky didn't bother moving from the low wall he'd perched on. No other pedestrians were around now, and all the cars had their windows rolled up. He was left alone without the dark-skied nights that brought terrors to his sleep. At first he'd slept during the day, and it seemed like the sun had kept watch over him and guarded his dreams, but he'd soon realized that it was more practical to be on the move during the day. So he'd clenched his teeth until his head pounded, and woke four times a night screaming, but he made himself stay on a diurnal schedule. Pierce and the handlers would not have tolerated such weakness, he remembered. That night he hadn't let himself eat. HYDRA had taught him to punish himself for breaking the rules even before he returned to base after a mission. HYDRA had taught him to never forget, even as they burned his memories away.

The thunder repeated, louder and longer now, and Bucky flinched instinctively. He was listening to the doors roll aside as he sat in the Chair, biting back a whimper at the pain he knew was going to come, waiting to be able to scream out the agony and horror. Every time he fulfilled a mission, he'd felt a dull sickening wrench in his body, something he'd never bothered defining or reporting. He knew what guilt felt like, just as he knew he could scream and let them think it was because of what the Chair was doing to him. Once he'd whimpered as he opened his mouth to bite down on the rubber guard. Rumlow's team had beaten him until his his blood had started to congeal on the concrete. Since then he'd bitten back any unnecessary sound, planning mission reports ahead of time to use as few words as possible and shaking or nodding his head rather than answering questions verbally. Days had passed between words.

A loud, blaring car horn yanked Bucky into the present. He started, hands clutching into fists and eyes wide in fear. The driver swept through a red light and sped down the street, away from Bucky, and the dark-haired man tried to make himself breathe more slowly. Slowly he realized he'd been sitting long enough that he was soaking. Water coursed down the back of his neck as he pushed his hair away from his eyes. He didn't really know why he'd kept it long, but he didn't have any reason to cut it either. A shiver swept across his frame and Bucky jumped down from the wall. He needed to get back to his safehouse and dry off. If he stayed wet and cold, he'd risk getting sick. HYDRA memories crowded on the heels of this information, of medications and bad-tasting drinks the colour of pond water.

There were also hazier memories, of a too-skinny blond boy coughing in bed until he could barely breath. Bucky's head tilted as he thought through this new information, not paying attention to where he was walking. The boy... the man on the bridge... the Steve. Once upon a time, his Steve. No, not Steve. His Punk, with bleeding knuckles and determined frown, saying, “I had him on the ropes”. Had who on the ropes? From what he'd seen, from what he remembered, the answer was probably somewhere on the scale of 'the world'.

It started raining harder and Bucky hunched his shoulders inside his hoodie, the cold water flooding his thoughts. Why was it always so cold? Maybe it was his body that lacked heat, rather than his surroundings. Bucky didn't care about the reason. He needed warmth. He needed Steve. The barbed-wire-topped fence of the junkyard finally rose in front of him and he slipped through the gate nobody seemed to know was there. Considering that he'd never seen anyone in the back half of the junkyard, let alone this corner, it was entirely possible that the owner didn't know.

Under the shelter of a shed's overhanging roof, Bucky pushed his hair out of his face again and tried to see through the rain lashing down from the sky. He spotted 'his' black car right where it always sat, still untouched. Even if he'd still been dry, his dash for the car would have changed that. If possible, he felt even wetter than before. He dove into the backseat, slinging water everywhere, and slammed the door behind him. Water ran down his face and he scrubbed his wet sleeve across his skin, more out of habit than anything else. His jacket and shirt stuck to his skin but he pulled them off, draping them across the headrest of the passenger seat.

The backpack in the trunk held seven knives, four pistols, and two sets of clothes. Bucky pulled the pack through the gaping hole that had replaced half the seat's backing and took out both t-shirts and a pair of jeans. It didn't take him long to change, but since his only jacket was still dripping cold water onto the carpet he was still cold. Across the junkyard, the dim yellow lamps of the front buildings managed to force pinpricks of light through the rain, but otherwise it was dark. Bucky climbed into the driver's seat to avoid the rainwater that had soaked into the seat. He was still shivering and goosebumps had raised on his skin. The light from the lamps promised warmth but also the unwanted company of others. Unfortunately, Bucky's usual hideout wasn't climate controlled, or he would have already made a run for it.

Bucky slumped against the door of the car, coldness seeping through the glass. Even though the day had barely begun he was tired. He shivered again as rain thrummed against the roof of the car. It was cold. Too cold. He was falling from a train and Steve was yelling and his own throat was raw and he woke from the nightmare cursing in Russian. There was no snow for his blood to stain, and when he clutched at his arm his fingernails pushed against metal rather than torn flesh. Outside his car, the world was wet but the rain had stopped. Bucky gripped the sides of the steering wheel tightly and lowered his forehead to the hard plastic. Usually his sleep was only ripped apart when it was dark outside. It must have been the storm. He yawned, tired despite the fact that he'd just woken up, and reached blindly for his hoodie. It felt dry and he tugged it on, pulling it closed across his torso but not zippering it. He pulled his feet up onto the seat and stared out the windshield. Even though he had that dream at least twice a week, he still wasn't sure he knew what it meant. Why had his Steve been there? Since the first night, Bucky had been wondered if Steve had pushed him off. A sacrifice to HYDRA? Revenge? Yet the screaming hadn't just been his own.

Bucky grabbed his bag from the backseat and stuffed his spare t-shirt into it, then pushed the bag back into the trunk. He wanted to yawn again, but instead he opened the car door and stepped out. If he'd been wearing sneakers instead of combat boots, his feet would have been soaked, but as it was Bucky managed to cautiously make his way across a junkyard's worth of slippery mud puddles without falling. He'd woken up hungry and was now in search of somewhere to remedy that problem. The town wasn't quite back to its former level of activity after the storm, and Bucky felt comfortable enough to leave his hoodie down. Although he didn't like the way his field of vision was restricted when he had it up, he'd rather have a split-second disadvantage in a fight than be recognized.

The hazards of a half-filled fast food place were navigated with ease, and Bucky escaped to the outside with his plunder. He passed by the same electronics store he'd walked by earlier, but the focus of the news anchors had turned to less exciting events. An updated version of last night would undoubtedly be slotted for the six-o-clock news. Bucky turned away from the sets and started walking back to the junkyard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone kudos'd and then someone bookmarked and I was so happy this ended up happening. Thank you all my lovely readers! At this rate I'll have the fic finished by the end of the month. But, after that we move onto the next stage! Which will hurt a lot (I'm sorry) but will also have some fluff/crack (Clint, Bucky, and margaritas - the rest is still classified). Maybe one or two of y'all wouldn't mind giving a follow to my blog, the-starry-seas.tumblr.com?


	13. Chapter 13

Steve didn't want to admit it, but he was lost. The street he was walking down bore no resemblance to any of the cities he'd been in looking for Bucky. His 'short jog' had ended up stretching for miles, and he was pretty sure he'd passed a few towns before stopping in the current one. Fortunately he'd remembered to bring his cell phone, and he called Sam.

“Hey, man,” Sam answered. “Where did you go this morning?”

“I went for a run.”

“And ended up in Kansas?”

“Actually, I don't know where I am. It's been a couple hours.” There was silence on the other end of the line. “Sam?”

“You've been running so long that you don't know where you are? That is not healthy.”

“Sam, I don't need a lecture.”

“I bet you could use a ride, though. Ask around and find out where you are. You left your bike here, so if you don't mind me driving her, I can take my wings back.”

“That'll work,” Steve agreed. “I'll find out where I am and text you.” He hung up and walked into the nearest store. After paying for a sandwich and bottle of water, he pretended to be a lost tourist and asked for advice on how to get to St. Paul.

The store owner pulled out a map from below the counter and pointed out a little town. “You're only about twenty miles away,” he said. “Go northeast here...”

Once the man was finished giving directions, Steve thanked him and left the shop. If the rest of the team heard about this, they were never going to let him live this down. He could already hear Tony's version of the story: “Cap got bored and took a little walk. Twenty miles, no big deal. I could have made it in ten minutes with the suit, but it took him a couple hours. Can't hold it against him, he's old.”

Sam showed up almost an hour later. “How are you still on your feet after running twenty miles?” he asked. “You sure you're safe to drive?”

“Thank you for your concern,” Steve said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “I'll be fine.”

“You supersoldiers are one weird bunch,” Sam said. “Here's your keys.” Once Steve had started the engine and kicked up the motorcycle's stand, Sam went in search of the nearest rooftop to jump off of. His wings unfurled without a hitch and he swooped up into the sky with a grin. Some feelings never got old, and flying was one of them. Rather than following the road, he took a straighter route back to the motel and arrived there before Steve.

Steve took the rest of the day off. He knew Bucky was in the area, at least for the time being, and didn't want to scare him off by getting too close to his hideout. While Sam left the Falcon rig in the motel and went out to meet with a friend, Steve turned on the coffeepot and started making some calls. He got permission from the head of the state police department to access their online files and started browsing. Sergeant O'Reilly's story about an unknown vigilante/rescuer sounded exactly like Bucky. After all, it was how they had met when they were boys.

Sam came back at five PM with a pizza for dinner. Steve had an inch-thick stack of papers he'd printed at the library and most of them were spread across the bed and the desk. A map of the eastern seaboard was pinned up on one wall with pieces of coloured duct tape marking spots were an unknown man had saved someone.

“I thought we already found Bucky,” Sam remarked, opening the pizza box. “What's all this?”

“I was looking into what Sergeant O'Reilly mentioned yesterday. Remember when he said that there had been somebody saving people up and down the coast? Well, I made some calls and got access to online records for the state. Then I expanded, looking all along the coast. Each of these pieces of tape represents an incident where somebody matching Bucky's description or M.O. helped someone.” He pointed at various pieces of tape or stapled-together papers as he started listing instances. “This was an attempted rape. Someone tried to rob a guy here. A missing child was found by an anonymous person. Drug lord deposited unharmed but panicked at a police station. Forty-thousand-dollar donation to a charity, from a suspected crooked CEO who announced his retirement the same day.”

“So you think your boy has been helping people out, trying to atone for the Winter Soldier?” Sam was obviously skeptical of the idea, but he had to admit there was some merit to the idea. If Steve had been the one taken by HYDRA and was now trying to recover, he probably would have done the same.

“He's not mine,” Steve corrected. “He doesn't belong to anyone but himself. We were just friends. But I do think it's him. That kid that was found – he said the man who found him had a 'shiny hand'. And the alley where the guy almost got mugged had a four-inch-deep hole in the wall the shape of a man's fist.”

“And Bucky has that metal arm. It makes sense. But if he comes back to you-”

“When,” Steve interrupted firmly.

“Okay, when, I think it would be best if you didn't bring it up. Especially if he's recovering well. Despite the fact that he saved lives, it would be best not to remind him that he fought people of his own free will.” Sam took a bite of his pizza and pointed to Steve, then the box.

“I'll eat, Sam. But if he doesn't have free will, Bucky's no better than what HYDRA made him.”

“I'm not saying to take it way. I'm just saying that we should try to tone down the feral assassin thing and focus on getting him into a more passive frame of mind. I mean, if you bring him back to the Tower you don't want him wandering out into the streets of New York in vigilante mode.”

“If I could get him to stay at the Tower I think that would be an achievement,” Steve confessed. “He was always on the move when we were kids. Making new friends, playing baseball, helping at the store on the corner. His mom was always complaining that he never stayed at home for more than an hour at a time. That's how I found out his full name – his mom yelled it down the street to get him to come home for dinner. I remember I laughed so hard I almost had an asthma attack. He felt so guilty, but I said it was no problem. I hadn't laughed like that in a long time. It was worth it.”

There was a heavy knock at the door and the two exchanged a glance. Sam drew his pistol and cocked it, and Steve picked up his shield. Armed with his signature defensive weapon, he opened the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fifty-three hits and six kudos happened literally overnight. Within twelve hours! You guys are so amazing, I can't even describe it. Here's another chapter (sorry-not-sorry for the cliffhanger). Expect another update tomorrow if you guys keep spoiling me XD
> 
> Edit: We've passed 1,000 hits! Thank you all so much. Definitely giving another update tomorrow.


	14. Chapter 14

Bucky kept shivering all day long. Even though he was wearing two shirts under his jacket, and found a warm coffee shop to sit in while drinking a steaming hot cup of java, he couldn't get his body temperature up. When the waitress asked if he was okay, he lied 'yes' and left a few minutes later. He could sense her looking after him but didn't bother looking back. It took him twice as long as it usually would have to get back to the junkyard.

The junkyard owner was in Bucky's safehouse when the dark-haired soldier opened the door. For a moment they both froze, staring at each other; the owner in confusion and Bucky in terror. “Who the hell are you?” the older man demanded suspiciously, taking in Bucky's ragged appearance. “Are you the one that's been living here? Place looks like someone moved in.”

“I...” Bucky could only stare at him as he tried to remember how the English language was supposed to be spoken. “I'm sorry. I needed a place to stay.”

“There's hotels, or homeless shelters if you don't have the money. Do I look like I run a station for hobos?”

Bucky tried apologizing again. “I'm sorry?”

“Yeah, you will be if you come back here! Get out and make sure you don't try sneaking in again. There's dogs loose at night that would tear you to pieces. I suppose you're the one who was stealing things outta my yard too, eh?”

“No, I-I wasn't!”

“Of course you weren't. Well, I don't care, get out of here! Go on!” He shook his fist at Bucky and took a threatening step forward.

Bucky put both his hands up in the air, wide eyes focused on the man. “I'm going,” he said, voice catching in fear. He stepped back, feeling the concrete turn to mud beneath his boots. As soon as the door swung closed between them, he turned and bolted for the fence. The dogs caught sight of him and started barking, but they were chained during the day and none of them came close to reaching him. Bucky leaned against the fence as he fumbled with the latch on the gate, fingers made clumsy by his panic; he flung it open and let it slam behind him as he ran down the path to the nearby street. In a few moments one of the local abandoned warehouses gave him entry. He crouched against one of the interior walls, hand shaking and chest heaving. Between the unexpected close encounter and the man's antagonistic attitude, he could practically feel the panic creeping over him.

No. Breath. Think of your Steve, the skinny punk. He was looking for you. He doesn't blame you. The thought stoked a new realization. Steve would help. Go home, his instincts urged. Go home to Steve. Without realizing it, Bucky was running. He'd memorized the address yesterday, while turning the paper Steve had given him over and over in his hands.

It didn't take him long. He took a creative approach toward the definitions of 'road' and 'walking', varying his route anywhere between the rooftops and the street level. Room number twelve, Steve had told him. The numbers beat in his mind as he fled down the sidewalk. He jumped the shoddy chainlink fence around the motel parking lot and stumbled down the row of doors. Between his fear and sickness, he could barely make out the plastic numbers hanging on each door. Finally he found the right one, and stood in front of it swaying for several moments. He was about to turn and run when the problem was solved for him. He lost has balance and flung his hand out to catch himself, and his palm landed hard on the door. He flinched and reeled away from the noise, barely catching himself before falling over backwards.

The door cracked open. A flash of blue eyes and sandy hair, then the door was flung open and Steve was standing there. Bucky could see another man in the background but couldn't tell who it was. “I... Steve, I...” Hurt and confusion shimmered in Bucky's eyes, mirroring his emotions. “Help,” he whispered, nearly whimpering. “Stevie, it hurts.”

“It's okay,” Steve said quietly, reaching out a cautious hand. “Bucky, come here. You're safe. Tell me where it hurts.”

“I... It... Everywhere.” Bucky swayed forward and Steve was standing by, ready to catch him. His friend's hands were warm on his skin. “It's cold. So cold. Can't feel my fingers.” He raised his right hand and stared passively at his fingertips, noticing that his fingernails and skin were pale. “What's wrong with me?”

“Come inside, Buck,” Steve said. “Please.”

Bucky let himself be led inside, leaning so heavily on Steve that by the time they got to the bed he was almost wholly supported by the blond's strength. He collapsed on the bed and sat there, blinking like he could barely stay awake. The other man, who had been wearing wings before, was staring at him like he wasn't quite sure Bucky was actually there. “Who's that?” Bucky asked warily.

“His name's Sam. He's a friend of mine.”

Steve's voice sounded distant and Bucky looked up in confusion. The super-soldier was standing right in front of him, face creased in worry. Bucky heard his name, the frantic rushing of blood in his veins, then nothing.

 

Steve caught Bucky before he fell and laid his friend on the bed. “Bucky, what's wrong?” he asked frantically. He took Bucky's right hand in his and nearly dropped it. “My God, Sam, he's freezing. Call Stark. Tell him to get the Quinjet here right now.” He pulled the blankets across the bed and over Bucky's motionless body, then put his jacket on top for good measure.

“Stark wants to talk to you,” Sam reported. He tossed Steve the phone.

“Tony, I need that Quinjet,” Steve said without preamble.

“How stable is your brainwashed assassin?” Tony replied.

“Unconscious and sick. He needs medical help and he needs it now. Can we talk this over as you're flying the Quinjet?”

“JARVIS is remotely piloting it to you as we speak. ETA is about ninety minutes and I've got Iron Legion bringing Dr. Cho to the location you're calling from.”

“Stark, I don't know if he'll last that long.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY. For the feels and everything.
> 
> But we do get to see Steve and Bucky together again so that kind of makes up for my awful ending, right?


	15. Chapter 15

The phone rang half an hour later, Tony's name on the screen. Steve answered with, “Stark, you better tell me that Quinjet is almost here.”

“Not really, but I've got the next best thing. I pulled the Avengers card and Dr. Cho and her equipment will be showing up in ten minutes or less. Listen, I'm sending you her number. Call her and describe what you've got happening. She might need to fly him out to a state hospital.”

“He'll be arrested if he goes out in public like that,” Steve protested.

“Not if the Legion and I show up to deter them. Listen, Steve, if he recovers from whatever's wrong with him, he'll be fine. Once we get him to the Tower I can give you my personal guarantee that he will stay safe as long as he's within my walls. Nobody breaches JARVIS.”

“I can't tell if you're being genuine or a show-off.” The phone buzzed in his hand and Steve looked at it. “Cho's number came in. I'll talk to you later.” He cut the call without waiting for Tony to acknowledge and immediately called Dr. Cho. “Dr. Cho? Thank you so much for coming. I'm sorry to disturb you.”

“What's Bucky's temperature and breathing like?”

“His hands are freezing, but his forehead is a little warmer. We don't have a thermometer. I took his pulse and it's racing, but he's breathing normally and I can't hear any congestion. He looked like he was dizzy and exhausted, and had a little trouble concentrating, but he was coherent until he collapsed.”

“Did he fall?” Cho demanded.

“He was already sitting on the bed, so he didn't hurt himself.”

“Call Stark and tell him to stock up on vitamin supplements, iron, iron-rich foods, blankets, and warm clothing. Tell him we're headed his way as soon as the Quinjet lands. And try to keep Bucky warm until I get there.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Steve said. He relayed Cho's requests to Stark, who started yelling to JARVIS. Steve tossed the phone onto the table and carded his hands through his hair. Bucky laid still on the bed, propped up against the pillows but still unconscious. “Sam, can you keep an eye out for Dr. Cho? She said they'd be here soon.”

“How is she coming?”

“Iron Legion is flying her in.”

“Guess I'll take the wings in case.” Sam strapped the harness on, grabbed his goggles, and went out the door. Steve pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat down, gaze focused on Bucky. His friend was far too thin. Bucky stirred in his sleep but didn't wake. Steve reached to brush Bucky's dark hair out of his face but realized he didn't know what Bucky's triggers were and pulled his hand back. A few moments later he heard the distinctive metal-on-concrete sound of iron suits landing and stood up. He opened the door a couple seconds before Dr. Cho arrived. Her suit disengaged and took up Sentry mode at her order, standing outside the door.

“Help Sam make sure the Legion gets everything in here safely,” Cho ordered. “Go on, out.” She was focused on her patient already, and Steve doubted she would know whether he stayed or not, but he left per her orders. Half a dozen Legion suits were hovering in two rows, several large crates wrapped in a cargo net suspended between them. Their AI had been programmed to respond to the orders of any Avenger, so when Steve told them to land and follow him with their load, they obeyed.

Dr. Cho started issuing orders to the Legion as soon as the first iron faceplate showed in the doorway. Steve and Sam, having no idea what to look for even if they knew where, stood aside and let them work. The medical lingo Dr. Cho used was indecipherable to them, and Steve fidgeted as she worked. After a few terse minutes, during which Steve's one attempt at communication was brutally cut short, Dr. Cho stepped away from Bucky and faced them. “He should be out of danger if he keeps quiet and follows my orders.”

“Buck was never one to listen,” Steve said with an instinctive smile. It faded and he asked, “What's wrong?”

“I'd say exhaustion and anemia were the basic causes,” Dr. Cho said. “Psychologically he's probably still a mess, but I'm not a therapist. Once the Quinjet shows up, we can get an IV in him with a saline solution, then start the blood bags. He'll probably need at least three bags, and he won't truly be out of danger for a few months, but there's no foreseeable danger if he cooperates. Steve, do you know what blood type he is?”

“No,” Steve admitted.

“No problem.” Dr. Cho reached into her medical bag and took out a syringe. She inserted it under Bucky's skin inside the elbow and withdrew a small capsule of blood. “Legion 04.” One of the robots stepped forward from the lineup outside the motel room. “Go back to the medical base and get this analyzed. Bring three matching units of blood to the Quinjet.” The robot took the capsule, deposited it into a compartment in its forearm, and flew off. “Steve, you need to stay right by his side. If he wakes up, he needs to stay awake.”

One of the robots spoke. “I have an incoming message from Tony Stark.” A pause, then Tony's voice, turned metallic by the robotic voicebox.

“Greetings, technologically-impaired mortals. I got clearance from the government for a better flight plan so the Quinjet will be there in about ten minutes. You'll be back at the Tower about sixty minutes from departure. Dr. Cho, the Legion will take the equipment back to medical base and repackage it. I noticed 04 is off on his own, did you ask for that?”

“Yes,” Dr. Cho confirmed. “He's getting a blood sample analyzed and then delivering some blood units to the Quinjet.”

“Who got hurt?”

“Bucky has anemia and needs his red blood count brought up immediately. It looks bad, and that's without any lab work.”

“How bad are we talking?”

“He could be almost fine, or he could be just a couple days short of cardiac arrest.”

As if to punctuate her words, Bucky started coughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that finishes this part of the series! I have no idea when the second part will follow but it will be soon (hopefully around the end of the month). Thanks so much to everyone who's reading and giving kudos! I'M SORRY FOR THE CLIFFHANGER.


	16. Chapter 16

Hey guys! This isn't really a chapter. Just a thank you for being so enthusiastic about this fic! I already have a chapter of the sequel up (http://archiveofourown.org/works/4843421) so go check it out! Remember that if you have this fic bookmarked, you still have to bookmark the other fic as well. Or you could just bookmark the series to make things easy :P

If you have any questions, comments, threats, or concerns, just let me know! I'm really happy that this got so many readers. We authors survive on kudos and comments. Keep being awesome, y'all!


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